


all our love is instant history

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Red White & Royal Blue Fusion, Bisexual Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Lesbian Manon Blackbeak, Modern Erilea (Throne of Glass), POV Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, POV Third Person, Past Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn, Rating May Change, idk i kinda want to keep it at teen but there will definitely be sex scenes in here so... :/, not pro rowan or rowaelin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: “Blackbeak is not my adversary, nor my rival,” Aelin corrects him. “That would imply that she’s anywhere near my level. Which she is most definitely  not.”“What is she then, if you’re too superior to her for her to be your rival, or whatever?” Aedion inquires, a half-smile at the edge of his lips.“She’s a right royal pain in the ass, is what she is,” Aelin says, emphasising each word with a wicked grin on her face.A Manon/Aelin Red White & Royal Blue AU!Gifset for this fic on my Tumblr.
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver & Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, Aedion Ashryver & Lysandra, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Manon Blackbeak, Lysandra & Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celeana Sardothien, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	all our love is instant history

**Author's Note:**

> title from [instant history b](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WD-BGzENgDQ)[y biffy clyro.](https://open.spotify.com/track/05btNgoMmaTbNc5PSsYYxn?si=2WZTnJJATEepZpQFO1aLMw)
> 
> a few notes on this au: it’s not set in our modern world as such, but modern erilea instead, and in their respective canon character arcs, this would be after kingdom of ash for aelin but just at the beginning of manon’s journey (except there’s no murder here.) i decided not to include the role of ellen claremont in here and replaced it with aelin being president of terrasen. the witch-kingdoms are combined as the united witch-kingdoms and terrasen is just... terrasen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin might have accidentally caused an international incident with Princess Manon Blackbeak. But it’s fine. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to another hyperspecific AU for an ultra rare pair! if i have to write the great majority of the fics for manon/aelin to get it to at least 20 works... I WILL
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy this fic <3

Aelin’s room is practically the only place where she can be alone these days. 

Back when she was living in Adarlan, still a normal person without the responsibility of a country on her shoulders, she had almost too much time on her own. And now the opposite is true: she cannot even go out for some fast-food without paps trying to get a picture of Terrasen’s leader, messy and undone at some ridiculous early hour. 

Now it is only in her room that she can let her guard down, utterly unconcerned by politics for a few hours each day. She can slide her glasses on and almost pretend that she’s a normal person, reading some trashy romance novel that Aedion has always teased her for liking. 

It’s nice, but Aelin can’t shake the feeling that something about living like this is wrong.

She’s midway through one of the utterly cliched and over-dramatic reunion scenes when Aedion pokes his head through the door and she has to slam the book shut and cover it. 

Her cousin’s room is just across the hall from hers, which allows him indefinite leave to barge into her room as well as efficient communication between the two of them. It also allows them to bicker over the short corridor distance, which often pisses off the assistants who use the corridor. 

“Yeah? What’s happening this time?” Aelin asks him, trying to conceal the book completely without Aedion noticing. 

Aedion chucks the pile of magazines and his iPhone onto her bed, and Aelin makes sure to hide the book under her pillow as he sits down on her bed unceremoniously. She picks up the closest magazine, snorting at the headline: _President Aelin Galathynius Seen With Mystery Man!_

She shows it to Aedion and he laughs at it initially before frowning. “God, it must be so annoying, all this speculation on your dating life. I mean, you’re only twenty-one, and _shit_ , you’ve only had one actual relationship. Doesn’t it get annoying sometimes?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, “but it’s easier if I just laugh it off. If it’s funny, it loses its power to hurt you.” 

“That sounds… well, damn right.” Aedion replies. He picks up one of the magazines and flicks through it. “Huh. They’re saying you’re starting to get back with your ex.” 

Aelin groans at the mention of Rowan. “If so, they’re wrong. They have no idea how wrong they are. Firstly — ” she lifts up one finger “I am far too busy to be dating right now. At all. And secondly…” Another finger up. “In generous terms, Rowan Whitethorn is a bit of an ass. No thank you.” 

“You weren’t saying he was an ass when you were dating him,” Aedion teases her. She knows that he has good intentions, but cannot help her hatred of anything about her ex. The breakup still hurts, like a splinter flew from the wreckage of her relationship and embedded itself in her brain.

“Yeah, but he was an ass. And he was older than me, besides.” She sighs, wanting this part of the conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

“There’s nothing wrong with him being a bit older than you,” Aedion frowns. 

“Yeah, I got that, but he was kinda... old enough to be creepy. Try ten years older.” Aelin throws the magazine that she had been holding downwards, aware that she’s being stroppy and childish, but fuck it. In her room, she’s _allowed_ to be stroppy and childish. 

Similarly, Aedion tosses the magazine with the story about her ex aside and selects another one to flick through. Aelin leans back as she thumbs through the glossy and only slightly wrinkled pages, trying to find the best gossip on the Galathynius family. Or, what’s left of it, anyways. 

There’s a story that’s so blatantly untrue and so clearly fed to the press that Aelin has to cackle and read it aloud. “Hey, Aedion, listen. They’re saying you’re dating a model of some kind. Do they say who?” She scans over the article again, curious, but finding nothing except _a mystery woman._ “God, there’s nothing juicy in this at all. At this rate, you might as well just pull up one of the doubtlessly many pieces of fan fiction on the Internet about us. This is so boring.”

Aedion’s brows are furrowed with nervousness, but he relaxes a little at Aelin’s words. “I’ve told you this before, Aelin. No.” Raising a finger, he continues, “It’s for your own sanity that I’ve banned the both of us from reading fanfiction about us.” 

“Urgh.” Her head falls back against her pillows — sent over from Eyllwe by her friend Nehemiah — and Aelin forces her eyes closed, rubbing futilely at her forehead in an effort to get rid of the headache that never seems to stop nowadays. “Fuck this.” 

He nudges her in the side, gently. “By the way, you’re going to have to get up early tomorrow. You know that, right? So, better get all the sleep she can.”

Startled, her hands fall away from her forehead and she sits bolt upright. “Why? What’s happening tomorrow that I’ve forgotten about?”

An eyebrow raised from her cousin. “You seriously forget? It’s the Blueblood princess’s wedding, naturally. And your adversary, rival, whatever, will be there as well,” he teases, prodding her to get a reaction. It works, as everything involving Manon fucking Blackbeak does. 

“Blackbeak is not my adversary, nor my rival,” Aelin corrects him. “That would imply that she’s anywhere near my level. Which she is most definitely _not_.”

“What is she then, if you’re too superior to her for her to be your rival, or whatever?” Aedion inquires, a half-smile at the edge of his lips. 

“She’s a right royal pain in the ass, is what she is,” Aelin says, emphasising each word with a wicked grin on her face. “Also, I don’t think I have the patience to deal with her this time around. You and Lysandra are going to have to help me out. Like, distract her from me or something.” 

“I thought, and I quote, that you would ‘never give up until Manon finally leaves you alone’, Aelin. Or are you backing out?” 

Making a face, Aelin replies, “Of course not. This is just… a strategic retreat until I can finally get her to go.” 

Another eyebrow raise. “You really don’t like her, do you?” 

Aelin shrugs. “Of course I don’t. It’s really taken you that long to figure out?” 

He flicks through the pages of another magazine, tracing a finger over the lines of text. “Didn’t think you were serious about it, though.” 

“Well, of course I’m serious,” she frowns. “You do know that the combined Blackbeak, Yellowlegs and Blueblood families make up one of the most violently imperialistic and unnecessarily authoritarian regimes in the world, right? I do research these things, you know.” 

He looks back at her, confusion clear on his face. “I mean, if that’s true, why don’t you hate the entire institution rather than just one person from it?” 

“Oh, I do,” Aelin replies. “It’s just that Manon is easiest for me to dislike, as I see her the most.” She makes sure not to mention anything about the poster that she had kept pinned up on her wall at one point, Manon’s golden eyes glaring down at her, aloof from the world. Aedion might take it in the wrong way. 

Although he frowns, he leaves her alone on the matter of Manon Blackbeak after that, and they flip through the remaining magazines, trying to laugh at the rumours about them and Lysandra despite the new air of seriousness hanging over them. 

* * *

Breakfast as the president of Terrasen consists of toast, jam and coffee — hence, not much change from how it had been previously. It is only the setting that is different, the light and airy balcony that looks out over the gardens that is far improved from houses where the power had suffered a cut and public restaurants that Aelin had been forced to go to for food. Sometimes, it seems unreal to her how much her life has changed. 

She likes to take breakfast alone, gazing downwards at lush green lawns and thinking. Politics are always at the back of her mind, but she pushes it aside in favour of reminiscing. A small smile comes to her lips as she thinks about her time back in Adarlan with Dorian and Chaol, making a mental note that she must visit them soon. 

The toast is growing cold quickly, so Aelin takes several rapid bites to finish it and sips at her coffee, steam rising from the liquid into the air. She will undoubtedly need plenty of coffee today, what with all the travelling and then the Blueblood princess — what is her name, even, Petra or something like that? — having her wedding. And seeing Manon Blackbeak, because of course Aelin can’t catch a break. 

One of her aides calls for her from inside, reminding her that she still has a plane to catch, and she swallows the rest of her coffee in one large gulp and hurries away. Aelin doesn’t like leaving a mess for the workers to clean away, and normally she would take care of the remnants of her breakfast herself, but she’s running low on time.

Hurrying through the House, she meets Aedion and Lysandra at the front door, grinning to them in a quick greeting before all three of them are whisked into the back of a car with tinted windows and their driver pulls away from the kerb just on time. 

Aelin leans her head on Lysandra’s shoulder, the thrill of the rush starting to wear off as the President’s House disappears from view behind her. Yawning, she closes her eyes and tries to sleep, but the caffeine is keeping her awake as it always does. It’s doing its job, sure, but Aelin hates how, slowly and insidiously, it steals her sleep and rest from her. 

Lysandra’s wearing a thick coat with faux-fur bunched around the hood, and Aelin quietly enjoys the softness of the fur against her cheek, her eyes slipping half-liddedly closed. The rest of her outfit is invisible except for glimpses of a flower-patterned skirt, made of nearly-sheer dark fabric. She does not doubt that the cover-up is purposeful — god knows how, but Lys’s outfits are so fascinating to the general public that there’s a whole Reddit forum dedicated to what she will be wearing to the next event. Besides, the wait will surely be worth it.

Although usually they might strike up a lively conversation in the taxi, today it seems they are all unanimously too tired to do so. Their driver gives them a suspicious glance, but for the most part, leaves them alone, which Aelin is grateful for. There are so many emotions running brightly through her that she feels almost volatile and — not quite joyful, not quite angry, not quite sad, but something in between.

For the majority of the taxi ride to Orynth International Airport, which is far enough away from Orynth itself that the city name seems almost irrelevant, Aelin stares out of the window blankly. Though she knows, vaguely, that she’s looking out over her city, her people, it feels like she has lost herself in a dream, instead. A dream that she cannot find her way out of.

* * *

Even though she’s flown by private plane many times by now, the simple thrill of it never wears off. A whole plane, entirely to herself — the luxury intrinsic to the entire experience, the silent message that she is far richer and thus superior to the people who take public planes. Truthfully, Aelin used to be one of them, yet now her position raises her high. 

She still remembers, though, how easy it is to plummet back down. 

Now, though, reclined on her seat, floating high above the clouds and completely and utterly disconnected from the Internet, Aelin is free to relax and forget about the responsibilities awaiting her on the ground below. She pops open a bag of crisps and crunches loudly on one of them as she taps the top of her pen over her crossword page, thinking of the mundane answers rather than politics. For once. 

“Lys, you’re a crossword clue,” she leans back to tell her friend. “ _Member of the Terrasen Three who is not related to the others_. Honestly, that was an easy clue.” 

Lysandra grins cheerily at her. “So they remembered me, this time. Good. I thought they’d started to forget me.”

“Don’t think anyone could forget you, once they met you,” Aelin laughs. 

“Too right they can’t.” Lys lifts her hand with newly-painted nails to her lips and blows air against the wet nail varnish. “I aim to be completely unforgettable. And hot.” 

In front of them, Aedion tips his head back and groans. “I don’t know if you two have noticed, but I’m trying to sleep before we arrive in the United Western Kingdoms, and I suggest you do, too.”

Aelin flicks the back of his head playfully in response. “Go to sleep, then, and stop telling us what to do. It’s not like I ordered myself sleeping pills for this flight, or that I can just go to sleep.” 

“I _know_ you’re a chronic insomniac, Aelin,” sighs Aedion, but he turns around and goes back to trying to sleep anyways. 

“It’s all the caffeine. And the stress,” she murmurs a short while afterwards. No-one hears her except herself, for Lys is too absorbed in her beauty routine (which she sticks to religiously, and Aelin has never known her to go a day without it) and Aedion seems to have drifted off to sleep, seemingly unbothered by how uncomfortable the seats of the plane must be for his neck. So, Aelin is left to her thoughts again. As she so rarely is. 

Maybe it’s because her thoughts are dangerous if they’re on something other than politics. 

She’s keenly good at politics, despite what her opponents might say; she has forced herself to follow the currents and patterns of the political world for so long that everything is second nature. Well, except actually succeeding and becoming Terrasen’s president. That’s still new. Still something that she can chase the high of, before it becomes something mundane. 

Looking idly out of her window in her boredom, she sees only pale clouds and blue skies. The engines roar dully far beneath her like they’re raging against the air itself. The glowing seatbelt sign above her flashes off. The plane continues on its flight path, taking her closer and closer to Manon Blackbeak.

* * *

She takes her seat several rows behind other world leaders and royal family members with a smile, Aedion and Lysandra settling into their places beside her. Lysandra rearranges her skirt primly as they wait for the ceremony to begin. 

Glancing around the church, Aelin notices the Blackbeaks at the front of the church, and among them is Manon. When she is that far from Aelin, it is difficult to make out much about her expression or body language, and she frowns as she slumps back down in her seat. The wood is uncomfortable even through the cushion atop it, and she silently hopes that the wedding will be short. 

It takes quite a while for everyone to be seated. She sighs as she waits, wishing for coffee to keep her awake. The early hours do her no good, and she knows this well, but has no choice except to suffer them. 

Lysandra nudges her to wake her up once the ceremony starts in earnest, and Aelin forces herself to sit up properly as the bride is led down the aisle. Her beauty is covered by the veil, leaving nothing for Aelin to look at, so she redirects her gaze to the front of the church. There, she notices Manon’s distinctive pale hair, and something that’s not quite hatred wells up in her. 

Truthfully, Aelin doesn’t know whether she even hates Manon that much at all. She remembers a time when she’d stared at every picture of her she could find, disliking her yet also — 

“Pay attention,” Lys hisses. “They’re starting to photograph in earnest now.” 

She fixes her gaze on the couple at the altar, hears the droning of the officiating priest’s voice as he reads through the vows. And, of course, because it’s a royal wedding, the vows go on for far longer than they should do. Even the bride seems to be impatient, the bouquet in her hands shivering with her movements. 

By the time the priest finally says “You may kiss your bride,” and her veil is thrown back to reveal her face moments before her lips are against the groom’s, Aelin is openly yawning, not bothering to hide it behind her hand. 

The worst part might possibly be that there’s no passion in the kiss, even though it is posed dramatically in front of a stained-glass window with the sunlight settling on their shoulders. There’s no real romance in it. And that, more than anything else, is a shame. She feels sorry for the Blueblood princess, trapped in a marriage to a man she clearly doesn’t love.

There is a dull ringing in her ears as the audience claps, and the ceremony is declared officially over. 

The combined royal families of the Bluebloods, Yellowlegs and Blackbeaks are the first to move from their seats after the newlyweds. As Manon passes the row where Aelin is sitting, she barely gives her a cursory glance, annoyingly. If she’s going to be Aelin’s rival, she might as well try to act the part rather than ignoring her. 

Lys pokes her teasingly after Manon has passed, and Aelin gives her a false glare of disapproval. She looks over the rows of people still to leave in front of her and groans internally, knowing it will take a while before she finally leaves. 

By the time she’s out of the ceremony, Aelin has decided that she absolutely, unequivocally _hates_ royal weddings. Each and every last one of them. 

* * *

Once all three of them get out of the church, they are then pulled to the side, away from the crowds of people barely constrained by barriers. A palace official hurries them to a plain brick building and lets them in through the back entrance. “Change for the reception here, and be ready to leave by six.” 

The official turns to leave, but Lysandra stops them with a hand on their arm. “Which room are we in?” she asks, her voice seemingly kind but possessing a commanding air. 

“Third floor up, rooms 60 and 61.”

“Thank you,” Aelin replies as the other two hurry up the stairs, before following them. Her high heels clack loudly against the metal of the stairway as she runs, and she wobbles more than once. Cursing whoever made high heels fashionable, she keeps going up and up until she reaches the third floor. 

A metal plaque beside the door tells her that she’s in the right place, and the door is shut. It must have closed behind Aedion and Lysandra earlier. She opens the door again, grunting at the weight and heft of it, before hurrying down the corridor. 

The first door she tries is labelled 60: her eyes meet Aedion’s and he tells her that “Lysandra’s taken 61. She’s got your dress there, as well.” 

“Thanks,” Aelin gives him a smile and goes to the other door. This time, she startles Lysandra into looking up. 

“Come in,” she says, returning to her work of unzipping the bags their dresses are kept neat in. Her brows are narrowed as she works at the zippers, tugging the dresses out and laying them flat on the bags. 

Aelin picks the one marked with her name up, enjoying the feel of the smooth velvet in her hands. It is teal with gold embellishments across the bodice and gold threads woven through the semi-sheer skirt. As always, it had been Lys who picked it out, for she is easily the most fashion-conscious of all three of them. 

“So? What do you think? We’ll have your hair down, obviously, because all those royal family updos are so stuffy and old. And light makeup, too...” Lys trails off midway through when Aelin interrupts her with a hug.

“It’s wonderful and you’re brilliant,” she tells Lys, smiling.

“Thanks,” replies Lys with a grin. She tosses her hair over her shoulder as she turns her back to Aelin and starts to remove her clothes for the wedding ceremony — a black dress with bright flowers sprawling across it. Aelin follows suit, sliding her blazer and shirt off and pulling her formal trousers away before slipping into the dress. 

She only fumbles with the zip for a few moments before Lys’s hands are there, skilful in comparison to Aelin’s fumblings. Immediately behind her, Lys’s breath ghosts against the back of her bared neck as she does the zip up all the way, her hands skilful against Aelin’s back. 

Exhaling once Lys’s hands are away, Aelin squares her shoulders and resolves to put on a refined and confident front tonight. Manon will be there, and she must look better than her, see her name in the best-dressed lists above Manon’s. 

“Here.” Lys hands her a slim gold necklace from behind her with a stylised Eye of Elena on it. Aelin slides it onto her neck, adjusting it until it sits comfortably. 

Turning around, she sees Lysandra done up at last — a slinky, maroon dress with her dark hair tamed into sleek curls and dark-purple lipstick. When she turns fully to show Aelin all of it, she has to hold back a gasp at how beautiful her friend looks. And Lysandra _knows_ it, twisting a lock of dark hair coquettishly around a finger and smiling seductively. 

“You look — stunning.” Her words come out brokenly, for Lysandra seems to be stealing her breath from her lips as she stands there. 

Emerald-green eyes meet hers and Lysandra smiles. “Thanks, Aels.” Despite having heard it from her lips so many times by now, Aelin still blushes at Lys’s nickname for her, and Lys’s eyebrows flick upwards at Aelin’s visible blush, but she kindly says nothing about it.

Her hand slips into Lys’s, seemingly automatically. “Are we ready to top all the best-dressed lists by tomorrow morning?” 

Lysandra grins back at her. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Aelin squeezes her hand and together, they walk out of their room and down towards the taxi waiting for them. On the way, they rejoin Aedion, with his hair loose and messy in contrast to the neat suit he wears. Lysandra hugs him in greeting immediately and Aelin bites nervously at her bottom lip as she waits for their hug to finish, feeling slightly left out from their display of affection. 

“Are we ready to go now?” she asks, tangling her fingers together with boredom.

“We’re going to be early, aren’t we?” grouses Lysandra as they walk towards the exit, her hand in Aelin’s again and her arm around Aedion’s shoulders. 

“So what,” Aedion shrugs as they get back in the taxi for the third time today. The interior of the taxi is heated against the cold of the evening around them, and Aelin rubs her hands together to heat them up. The door closes on them and the driver pulls away, into the rush of traffic and taking them to the wedding reception. Where she will undoubtedly come face to face with Manon.

She might be disappointed by that thought, if she hadn’t had excitement rushing through her. 

* * *

The best part of the reception is undoubtedly the food, Aelin thinks to herself as yet another minor noble introduces himself to the three of them. She shakes his gout-spotted hand with a false smile and entertains several misguided questions about Terrasen. It is a great relief when he finally decides to leave and all three of them fall out laughing.

Someone gives them a disapproving look, but none of them really care. They’re young, and tonight their future is spread, glittering, in front of them. 

A server stops by them with a tray of glasses, and each of them take one. Aedion lifts his to toast, and they clink their glasses together with smiling faces. 

“What are we toasting?” Aelin asks. 

Aedion shrugs in return. “Whatever you want to toast to.”

“To — us, then.”

“To the Terrasen Three,” Lys giggles, seemingly tipsy already without any drinking, and all three of them drink together. Immediately, Aelin feels a pleasant rush through her system, and feels warm.

She glances up from where she sits and sees Manon standing across the room, silent and brooding with her arms crossed against company. And, of course, she gets up from her seat, swallowing the rest of her wine and setting the glass down.

“Where are you going?” Aedion inquires, leaning back in his chair languidly.

“Over there,” Aelin thumbs in the direction of Manon and hurries off. She picks up a drink from a nearby server as she makes her way through the throng of people who have taken to the dancefloor. It takes only a short while and several muttered excuses before she’s striding up to Manon, having replaced her now-emptied wine glass — how many is she on by now, three? — and taken a new, full one from a server.

She smiles, which isn’t as hard as she might have expected, and sidles to stand next to Manon, who either hasn’t noticed her or is purposefully ignoring her. 

This close, she sees that Manon’s slightly taller than her. It’s as if everything about her has been designed by the gods specifically to torture Aelin. She ignores that fact, though, and puts on an air of ease as she slips an arm upwards to rest comradely on Manon’s shoulder. 

Gods, Manon is even wearing a suit for the reception. Is she trying to kill Aelin from sheer hotness alone? Not that Aelin _likes_ her, or anything, just that she is pointing out something incredibly obvious. Something that everyone should be aware of, by now. 

“Hey,” she grins cheerily, and Manon’s gold eyes flick downwards to her, unamused.

“Aelin,” Manon replies coldly. Her gaze moves from Aelin to the dance floor, where various members of the combined royal families are twirling around. Celebrities that Aelin’s never heard of smile with diamonds around their neck and in their ears, and cameras flash under the glittering chandeliers. Everything about it is perfect, except Aelin herself, with her mussed hair and drunkenness. 

“So. How’s it going? Pretty boring, isn’t it? Not as boring as the wedding, though, I’ll grant it that.” She waits for a response from Manon impatiently, tapping her foot on the polished wood floor. 

There is a gleam in Manon’s gaze that threatens to shove Aelin away, and Aelin wants her to, wants Manon to be something other than the perfect, put-together princess that she is. She’s sure that Manon must have more depths to her than what she displays to the world, have some flaw or other that Aelin hasn’t yet noticed. 

“You are aware, it is my family’s wedding that you’re insulting?” Manon asks her mildly, making no move to push Aelin away. 

Aelin taps her near-empty flute of wine against her lips as she considers what to say next. If she was sober, she might be thinking of the possible ramifications and consequences of what she’s going to end up saying, but the wine has loosened her tongue and mind considerably, so she isn’t thinking particularly sensibly. Eventually, she replies, slurring her words together, “Yeah, and so?” 

It’s not a particularly elegant response, though it matters little, for all pretensions to elegance have fled Aelin by now. 

Manon smoothies the material of her silky shirt across her wrists, and Aelin notices that her cufflinks are brilliant ruby-red, the same as her lipstick. They flash under the chandeliers, a silent signal of wealth and status. 

Her reddened lips purse as she replies, “You have a great gift for recklessness and foolishness, it seems. I wonder how you became president at all if this is how you act normally.” 

“Oh, no, I’m drunk.” Aelin smiles at her in explanation. “Not completely drunk out of my mind, though.” Everything seems to be warm around her, except for Manon, sharp and cold. And barely emotional, either, for nothing that Aelin has done so far has broken her facade. Surely she must feel something other than bland indifference towards her.

“So I can see.”

A server passes by, and Aelin sees the opportunity to seize another wine glass and then replace it inelegantly with her now-empty one. She moves to knock it back, but then Manon’s hand closes vicelike about her arm, stopping her. 

Her brow flicks upwards challengingly. “I don’t think you should drink any more tonight.” 

Prising each one of Manon’s fingers away with her other hand, she tips her head back and drinks all of it in one gulp, a silent middle finger to Manon. Once she’s done, she taps the glass against her lips, the minimal lipstick left coming off on the rim. She can feel Manon’s eyes trained upon her, but pretends that she doesn’t notice, training her gaze on the floor.

The camera flash from somewhere hurts her eyes even though she’s been under the lens many times before. Some celebrity or royal family member is most likely going to find their face on the third or fourth news article down next morning. And, come to think of it, Aelin’s face will most likely be there as well. 

“Don’t you ever feel sad about the times you weren’t on the news every day?” Aelin asks, more to herself than anyone else, but Manon notices her words and a melancholy look comes over her. 

“I’ve never known anything else,” confesses Manon with her voice softened. 

“Yeah, but — ” She waves her hand in a futile attempt to get across something she can’t say. “But you’re different.” Aelin says at last. 

“How?” It is then that Aelin realises this is probably the most words they have ever exchanged, and isn’t that a milestone she hates. 

“Well — ” At a loss for words, Aelin can only gesticulate to try and explain it to Manon. “You’re, like, stone, or a statue of some kind for how little emotion you show. Like you’re a walking, talking corpse.” 

Manon’s voice turns into something other than blank and deadened as she replies, “I promise you that I am more than a statue, as you say. There are some things, though, that I prefer to keep away from public view.” 

Aelin thinks little of her words, more interested in the slight crack in her voice. Wondering if she can make Manon crack further. She presses against the only advantage she has, and waits eagerly for Manon’s reaction.

“What kind of things don’t you allow the public to see?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think you should take the conversation down that route.” All of a sudden, Manon clams back up, her voice cold as ice. Now, Aelin is left to wonder if she’d pushed too far.

“Oh? What secret is so bad that you won’t even let me in on it?” Aelin puts on a disappointed face, her heart starting to beat faster in her chest on the excitement of Manon’s secrets.

Manon replies, with a voice sharp and pained enough to cut, “What do you think?” 

A moment later, she’s turning to leave, her back to Aelin. And Aelin is decidedly not going to let Manon go without getting an answer out of her. She has enough presence of mind to put down her glass before going after her, hurrying before Manon is in the middle of the dance floor and she cannot get to her. 

Seizing her hand, Aelin forces Manon to stop moving and turn to face her. “What’s your secret?” she whispers, or perhaps she shouts. Her mind feels too much like it’s on fire — from the wine and from the adrenaline in her veins — for her to notice the volume of her voice. 

“Stop this,” Manon says, her teeth gritted in anger as she tries to pull herself free. _There —_ finally — Aelin has brought something other than stony neutrality out of Manon. 

“Not until you give me an answer,” replies Aelin, already dragging Manon backwards. Bright anger flashes in pure-gold eyes and then Manon tugs Aelin’s fingers away. But Aelin grabs her wrist, again, and holds on. She’s determined to get something out of Manon, unable to give up this small advantage she’s gained.

It seems to happen in slow-motion: Aelin leaning backwards, pulling Manon with her, and Manon loses her struggle, falling back towards Aelin. She tries to keep her balance, but fails to do so and falls as well instead. 

They still might have made it out with neither of their reputations being _that_ damaged if it weren’t for the wedding cake right behind them. The wedding cake which cost a stupendously large amount of money to buy in the first place, five tiers and custom-made for the occasion. And now, Aelin is plummeting towards it with Manon in front of her. 

“Oh, _shit_ ,” she hears Manon say under her breath in front of her. That must be the first time she’s hearing Manon swear, then. 

Her back meets the table, and then she falls against it. Right into the cake itself, icing cold against the bare skin of her shoulders and arms. There is only a second left before Manon, too, falls into the table and against Aelin’s body.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Aelin mutters unsubtly as all eyes turn to her and Manon. Lysandra will _kill_ her for getting icing on the dress she picked out for her. It seems she has a more immediate problem, though, as Petrah Blueblood pauses her dance and strides over to them with a furious look on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! comments and kudos = love 💕

**Author's Note:**

> as always, kudos and comments are heavily appreciated! 💞


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